No inn had been mentioned in the plans, although it should have been anticipated. A change of horses would be required after the arduous climb from Glossop, and this establishment was nearly midway along the route.

  Yes, he ought to have figured it out sooner. And might have, had he come at the problem logically. But he’d been caught up in a perceived threat to his life and shaken by the death of John Shea. Unwilling to trust the pair of fledgling criminals who fired bullets at his head and tried to steal paperweights.

  Ash was beginning to wonder if this was some bizarre dream. But Glenys and Harry were all too real, and he was almost ready to accept the existence of the pig man.

  Almost.

  During a long, sleepless night, Ash had made up his mind to verify Harry’s story. The boy was roused at dawn, sleepy-eyed and grumbling until he saw the horse chosen for him to ride. From then on he became a major irritant, chattering away until even Charlie and John Fletcher wearied of him.

  Ash refused to draw conclusions quite yet. The boy obviously knew of the Snake Inn, but that didn’t mean he’d been there when he said, or stumbled across a pig man who chanced to be speaking about the Earl of Ravensby’s unexpected return from London.

  He gestured to John Fletcher and spoke softly to him so that Harry would not hear. “Find out who is down there and report back. Take Charlie with you, and leave him to make sure there are no surprises.”

  When the two men were gone, he turned to Harry. “Do you recall the name of the proprietor?”

  Harry’s brow furrowed. “Longly. No, Longston. Hell, guv, I’m no dab hand at names. A preacher type, though. Said he wanted to set up a church.”

  “A preacher, running an inn and passing out free ale?”

  Harry grinned. “Good way to pick up a congregation, ’specially way out here. Folks might travel a mile or two for gospel talk if it comes with beer.”

  Ash nearly laughed.

  “Can I ride this horse after today?” Harry turned imploring hazel eyes in his direction. “I never been on a nag with any heart to it before. What’s his name?”

  “I don’t know if he has a name. And we’ll see, later, about you riding him again.” Not at all sure what would become of Harry after this excursion, Ash was unready to make any promise he could not keep.

  For all Harry’s inexperience, he appeared to have a gift for managing horses. The long trek from Ravenrook to this spot, single file once they ascended the boggy moors overlooking the turnpike, was a test for any rider. Ash had expected Harry to wander off the narrow path, but the boy controlled his mount with surprising skill.

  Ash lifted his spyglass again and saw John Fletcher picking his way up the steep track. Seemingly aware of the glass trained on him, John beckoned with a wave of his hand.

  “Follow me,” Ash told Harry. “The descent will be tricky.”

  “I know what you mean, guv. Nearly got sucked inter a bog a few months ago. The gaffer pulled me out, but it was a near-run thing. I’ll keep m’nag dead on behind you.”

  John, when they met him halfway, gave a succinct report. “Two ostlers for the horses. Five servants in the inn, three of them women. A proprietor named Longden. One guest. He’s in a private parlor, drinking steadily. Thing is, he came in a coach from Chatsworth. Got the Devonshire crest on it.”

  “His name?”

  John lowered his head. “Dunno, m’lord. Longden went suspicious when I pushed him. Want me to go back and try again?”

  Ash cursed himself. After the attack two nights ago, he’d begun to jump at shadows. One man, alone, could scarcely be a threat. And Hart wouldn’t lend his carriage to other than a respectable gentleman.

  “Of course not,” he said. “We’ll go down together. I expect we could all use a drink and something to eat.”

  THE HOST, A slender man with penetrating eyes and bushy eyebrows, was talking with Charlie when the three men entered the taproom. He looked up with a welcoming smile that widened when he spotted Harry.

  “How are you, m’lad? Find any work yet? No more drinks on the house for you, as it’s one to a customer, but the other gentlemen are welcome to the libation of their choice.”

  Ash crossed to the bar and rested one hand on the polished wood. “Give the young man whatever he wants, and the others too. I’ll have a glass of your best brandy.”

  Charlie and John accepted tankards of ale and took up positions on either side of the room, where they could watch the door. At Ash’s direction, Harry settled at a table in the corner.

  When everyone was in place, Ash tasted the brandy, nodded approval, and glanced at a closed door to the right of the taproom. “Have you a private parlor?” he asked in a deliberately casual voice. “I prefer to drink alone.”

  Longden had been observing the odd behavior of the four men with a look of confusion on his face. “We do, but at the moment it’s occupied. There are bedchambers upstairs, if you care to make use of one.”

  “Thank you, no. The young man recommended your establishment, and I was surprised to hear of it. The last time I passed this way—”

  “It wasn’t here,” Longden finished cheerfully. “Everyone says that. We opened for business only last week, and the building was constructed in rather a hurry.”

  “At Devonshire’s behest? He is a friend of mine, but I haven’t seen him for a year or more. In fact, I had thought him to be in Italy, but his carriage is in your stable now. I don’t suppose he is the gentleman in the parlor? If so, he’d want to know I am here.”

  Longden’s eyes narrowed. “And who might you be, if I may ask?”

  Ash regarded him coolly. Although he respected discretion, at the moment he’d have preferred a more garrulous host. “Ravensby.” There was no flash of recognition in Longden’s eyes. “Perhaps you’ll assist me in another way, then. I am looking for someone to supply victuals for my estate, specifically pork. We’ve had no success raising pigs. Can you recommend anyone in the area?”

  Looking pleased to be of service, Longden leaned over the bar. “As it happens, one such was in here t’other night. Same time young Mr. Shea and his father stopped by. Name of Piers Piper, as I recall, and he lives in Hope.” He laughed. “That’s a town, not a state of mind.”

  “Yes, I know. Thank you for the referral.”

  As Longden refilled his glass with quite good brandy, Ash glanced over at Harry. The boy was chatting amiably with a pretty serving maid.

  His story had checked out in every detail. There was a pig man after all, and the name matched that of the tradesman who made a delivery to Ravenrook the night before his own return.

  He should be glad of it, because he liked Harry Shea. Glenys too, in a way, although she was trouble on two thin legs. He had no idea how to deal with a girl who held up coaches and shot with deadly accuracy and went looking for orgies in pool houses.

  He was also back where he started, without the link he thought he’d found to the killer.

  With an interior sigh, he picked up his glass and strolled to the window, gazing toward the mist-shrouded summit of Kinder Scout. A raw, beautiful, deadly place, Kinder Scout. It haunted his dreams even now.

  His father had lived for hunting season, when he invited his cronies to tramp the high plateau in search of red grouse. The earl hosted lavish hunting parties every autumn, filling Ravenrook with guests who talked of nothing but guns and how many birds they’d brought down.

  Ash had been expected to join them, but he could never see the sense of killing for the sport of it. Besides, as a youngster he was thin, awkward, and shy. He could scarcely lift the heavy rifle shoved into his hands, or endure the reproaches of those who tried, without success, to teach him to use it.

  As much as his father yearned for hunting season, he dreaded it. And his body reacted, with allergies and colds and fevers that elicited disgust from the earl and looks of pity from the houseguests. “Too bad Ravensby has only this milksop,” they would whisper among themselves. “He should marry again. Get a son with some bottom to him.”

  Ash heard, and knew what they meant. The fumbling boy he had been was no fit heir to the title. But he was never sure why slaughtering birds was the test of a man, although it seemed to be the only thing his father wanted from him.

  Perhaps he should have tried harder, but in his own way he was more stubborn than his father. And even now, a crack shot with pistol and rifle, he never hunted. He had been fired at often enough, hit twice, and felt more than a little empathy with any creature at the receiving end of a bullet.

  Like Jack Shea, he reflected, a leaden feeling at the pit of his stomach. Ash Cordell refused to hunt grouse, but he had killed a man. The irony sickened him.

  He thought suddenly of Geoffrey Todd and the bleak look that came to his eyes when there was mention of the war. Geoff knew about killing. After eight years in the army, he was an expert on blood and death.

  Ash swallowed the last of his brandy. He would ask Geoff when killing was justifiable. Ask him how a man lived with the regrets and the memories.

  But he would not ask, of course. Men didn’t talk about such matters, and even the best of friends found it impossible to confide their own weaknesses. Besides, he had no wish to remind Geoff of what he must be trying to forget.

  Life would be so much easier if he’d been born with bottom—a hale, hearty, grouse-shooting country gentleman instead of a scholarly and somewhat philosophical man. He always imagined he was meant to be different than he was, but he didn’t know how to get there. Or where to go, for that matter.

  And the assassin had made the whole point moot, because now his only concern was survival. For the last six years he’d been very like a harried red grouse, running and hiding and wondering why someone was trying to kill him.

  One more brandy and he’d start to feel sorry for himself. Ash put down his glass and turned from the window. Longden was no longer in the taproom.

  He looked at the closed door to the private parlor, gestured to John Fletcher, who moved to the left of the door, and crossed the room.

  Chances were the individual enjoying his privacy on the other side of that door was as innocent as the pig man. But since he was traveling in Devonshire’s carriage, he’d have news of the duke. And if Hart was at Chatsworth, Ash ought to send his regards.

  Moreover, he wasn’t leaving the Snake Inn without finding out who was in that room. The back of his neck had begun to prickle when John told him about the mysterious guest, and he’d learned to follow his instincts.

  Holding to the wall, right arm slightly raised so he could drop the pistol into his hand if need be, he nodded at John. The young man lifted the latch and swung the door ajar.

  Through the crack between wall and door Ash could see a man seated at a small table, facing the other direction. One of his hands was wrapped around a glass. His other hand rested on the arm of the chair. There was something familiar about the shape of his head.

  The prickling ran from Ash’s neck all the way down his spine as he stepped into the room. “Pardon me for intruding,” he said softly.

  The man lifted his chin at the sound and emitted a chuckle. Then, slowly, he turned his head.

  “Well well, cuz,” he said in a voice furry with drink. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  7

  DESPITE HER FIRM intent to be up with the sun, Glenys slept until well past noon.

  She woke to find a tray with crusted chocolate and cold toast on the table next to her bed, and recalled dreaming of a conversation with Prudence. Apparently the maid had really been there.

  Suddenly ravenous, she devoured the stale slices of bread and washed them down with the bitter chocolate. A good, undisturbed sleep, her first in a long time, left her sparking with energy. She could hardly wait to face the earl again, and had a vague notion she’d dreamed of him too, during the long night.

  Chewing the last bite of toast, she tried to call back the dream. She could only remember that his arms had been wrapped around her. His fingers had tangled in her hair.

  At school she’d had dreams about men, but all of them wore armor. When she tossed a crimson scarf from her window, they affixed it to a lance and rode off to battle dragons.

  Lord Ravensby came to her naked and slipped between the sheets. He was damp from his swim and cold, until she warmed him.

  What a goosecap, to imagine such a thing even in her sleep! But as she went to look out the window, lines from The Tempest came to her mind—

  “… and then, in dreaming, the clouds methought would open up and show riches ready to drop upon me, that, when I waked, I cried to dream again.”

  The skies had not opened for Caliban, though. And no handsome earls would be dropping into her bed. Dreams rarely came true for monsters and common folk.

  Lady Ravensby’s blue muslin gown, freshly pressed, hung in the armoire. Glenys dressed quickly, ran a brush through her unruly hair, and put the soft leather shoes aside with a murmur of regret. They were far too small.

  She had always been ashamed of her large feet, and her wide mouth, and eyes that tilted upward at her temples as if God had been drinking when he set them in her face. She had big hands too, with ragged fingernails because she chewed at them.

  She was not quite interesting enough in appearance to be a freak, nor so ugly that anyone would call her an antidote. But she would always be the last female any man noticed in a crowd.

  The fashion, or so the girls at Miss Pipcock’s insisted during endless discussions about such matters, was for petite blondes with limpid blue eyes. A brunette might enjoy a rewarding Season if she was exceptionally beautiful, and a redhead without freckles could achieve marginal success. But in the Pantheon of Beauty, there was no allowance for Glenys Shea.

  With nary a man in range and no Season in her future, she hadn’t much cared … until now. Approaching the mirror, she saw confirmation of what she already knew. A reed-thin girl stared back at her, everything too large except for her breasts. Those were practically nonexistent.

  No wonder she’d easily passed for a boy. For that matter, even Harry was prettier than she. And he had smaller feet.

  She padded across the room and rapped for the guard’s attention. A tall young man opened the door and greeted her with a slight bow. She remembered him from last night. “Robin, I believe?”

  He nodded. “Did you want somethin’, miss? Prudence is having lunch in the kitchen, but I can send for her.”

  She tried to look dignified, not easy with bare feet. “Tell Lord Ravensby I wish to speak with him.”

  “He’s not here, miss. Left this morning with your brother. Said he’d be back tonight unless they ran into trouble.”

  Dear God. Was the earl transporting Harry to the magistrate, as he’d threatened to do? “Left for where?”

  “Dunno, miss. All I know is you are to stay in your room and—”

  “Hello the house!”

  At the sound, which came from downstairs, Robin drew a pistol from his coat pocket. “Don’t move.”

  “Ash?” The voice was louder this time. “Where the devil are you?”

  Robin turned his head.

  While he was distracted, Glenys pushed him aside and ran full speed along the passageway. She was halfway down the sweeping staircase when Robin caught up and grappled her shoulder.

  Three men wearing heavy greatcoats gazed at her from the foyer. The butler and footman turned around to look, and in the stunned silence she saw two of the men, the burly ones, reach inside their coats for weapons.

  Soon there were three pistols aimed in her direction, one from behind and two from the black-and-white-checked marble hall. The absurdity struck her forcefully.

  Lifting her arms over her head, she grinned. “I surrender, gentlemen.”

  Flushing, the men in the foyer lowered their guns and Robin let go her shoulder. She curtseyed, as elaborately as she could on the staircase with her hands over her head, and watched the pistols disappear under the folds of the men’s greatcoats.

  “My my.” The third man, who had observed the proceedings with a wide smile on his handsome face, stepped forward and bowed. “Whatever has Ravensby been up to?” With a wave of his hand, he dismissed the others. “I’ll handle this dangerous criminal, gentlemen. Fortescue, see our luggage unloaded, will you? And let the earl know we’ve arrived.”

  The butler accepted hat, gloves, and greatcoat as the gentleman stripped them off. “He is not at home, my lord, but we expect him by this evening.”

  “Ah. Then I’ll have the lady all to myself for a time. Go away, Robin. And do put your arms down, miss. I expect they are aching by now.”

  They were, and she lowered them gratefully as Robin left her alone on the staircase. The gentleman spoke softly to the butler for a few moments, giving her a chance to observe him without the distraction of guns.

  He was almost more beautiful than Ravensby, although comparing them was like matching sun against moon. The earl’s dark good looks held center stage in her mind because she had seen him in the flesh—all the flesh—and only his haunting eyes were more compelling than his magnificent body.

  The stranger was nearly as tall and broad-shouldered, with blond hair that curled around his ears and neck. Even from a distance his eyes were startlingly blue, like a summer sky. His ready smile was pure sunshine.

  She liked him immediately, even more so when he moved gracefully up the stairs and held out his hand. “Will you take a dish of tea with me, mysterious lady? Think before you answer, because I daresay you’ll be quizzed over cakes about your unexpected but delightful presence at Ravenrook.”

  “I’m growing accustomed to inquisitions in this house,” she replied with a shrug. “But who are you?”

  “Geoffrey Todd. Killain to friends and acquaintances, Lord Killain to servants and strangers, and Major Lord Killain when I’m in company with men of the Fifty-second.”

  “How are you addressed,” she inquired mildly, “by a would-be assassin?”

  His expression darkened, only for a moment. “This grows more fascinating apace. And clearly I should have told Fortescue to serve up wine instead of tea. Come, my dear. I am afire with curiosity.”

 

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